


A Fire Consuming

by Qeani



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Baby Fëanor, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Romance, F/M, Silmarils, Valinor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qeani/pseuds/Qeani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All are born with the ability for good or evil. The child itself is innocent. It is the person it grows to be that determines whether it is good or evil. Fëanáro's first thought was not of chaos or crafting. Just as with any innocent child, it was his mother that first graced his mind. This is the story of Fëanáro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all characters you recognize are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and family. As much as I wish they were mine, they are not. I hope you enjoy this story. Enjoy! :D

 

 

 

Children are naturally curious things; elflings are even more so. There has been much debate on the differences of elven and mortal children. The Edain grow at a faster pace, leaving their elven peers behind while the elven children far surpass their counterparts in intelligence. Even so, there is a single moment when they are one and the same: the time of birth. It is the first time an innocent child is made to breathe, to open its eyes and behold the face of its mother. That is the first memory of every child; some are pleasant, and some are not.

The child was born in the dawn at the mingling of the lights of Laurelin and Telperion. His first memory was one of a beautiful woman with a silvery voice to match her hair, and dark, tired eyes. She smiled as she touched her weak hand to the child's dark brow. "This is your son." The woman looked up to see her husband rest his hand on her shoulder. "Curufinwë. What do you think of the name?"

With a tear in her eye, she nodded. "Yes, that is a good name. But-" She was cut off by a series of coughs that attacked her already ailing form.

"Niquessë, please take the prince." Finwë motioned for a nursemaid, and the young nís hurried to their side. As she was about to take the child from his mother's arms, a new-found strength entered Míriel's arms as she grasped her arms tighter around the child.

"No-" Shocked at the raspiness of her voice, she cleared her throat. "Please. Not much time. Fëanáro, my boy." She smiled as she cradled his delicate hands, as his electric blue eyes bored deep into her soul. She was unsure of how to react to the fire that seemed to leap from his very eyes, his fëa. So it was he who had sucked the life out of her; she had previously assumed that it was her incapability to carry a new child. It was not, it was this child- Fëanáro.

As she rubbed her weak hands across his dark hair, the elfling looked up into his mother's dark eyes. A tear escaped her eye as she looked down into his shocking gray eyes from which a fire seemed to leap, grasping any sight of knowledge and all that occurred around him. Deep in her heart, Míriel knew of the greatness for which Fëanáro was destined; what greatness it would be was not known. From his hands, either great life or significant death would arise. "Or maybe both."

Míriel sighed and closed her eyes, leaning against the pillows that cushioned her back. She felt her strength fail as she closed her eyes. It was the last thing she knew.

She did not immediately release her hold on life, instead hanging on to her hröa for several more weeks to follow. In those ensuing weeks, she never once woke. Any who saw her might have mistaken her condition for sleep. But no elf sleeps with their eyes closed.

When Míriel Serindë faded, she left behind a mourning husband, a grief-stricken nation, and a young child who would never know his mother.

 


	2. Fish and Shrubs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I wish it, I do not own any of Tolkien's works, characters, or properties. I do however, own Niquessë and any other OC's you will come across. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, reviews are always welcome.

 

 

 

Running as fast as his little legs could carry him, Fëanáro sharply turned onto the path that led to the garden. She can't catch me now, he thought triumphantly. Today was a special day, at least in his father's mind. The king and queen of the Teleri were coming to visit, and that meant fish. Oh, how the fifteen-year-old elfling hated fish. Disgusting, wiggly, and too fishy were some of the terms the young prince would use to describe all varieties of seafood. It also felt strange to eat something that had been unaware of its capture. At least deer knew when death was approaching; to them, it was usually welcome.

All creatures would simply be reborn in the coming months – that was if they were the animals of Oromë. Animals here did not die permanently. If they did, why would it be called the "Undying Lands?" Admittedly, that meant fish would be reborn as well, except Fëanáro refused to accept that fact. He was merely looking for another reason to not eat fish.

"Curufinwë Fëanáro Finwion, where are you?" Niquessë called in the hope that the young prince would respond. Pausing, she heard rather loud, deep breaths coming from the shrubbery to her left. Smiling, the young nursemaid pretended not to know where the elfling was hiding.

"He must have disappeared. That boy is much too bright for me, and he knows how to hide very well. Or maybe he turned into a star and flew up to the sky," she said, rubbing her hand through her dark hair in an exaggerated manner.

The elfling rolled his eyes as Niquessë pretended not to know where he was hiding. He was aware that she was pretending to make him trust her. That was something that all adults did. They would pretend at his cleverness; he was smart, but why couldn't they see that?

"You are no fun," he grumbled as he came out of the shrub. "You knew I was hiding there, didn't you?" The elfling rolled his eyes in disgust. "Why does everyone treat me like a baby?" he whined, folding his arms he slumped to the ground in defiance.

"Maybe it is because you sometimes act like one," Niquessë said with a smile, sitting next to the prince. She noticed his deepening scowl she laughed and continued, "Or it is because I like to be silly every once in a while."

"As I never act like a baby, it must be that you are silly." Fëanáro allowed a grin to form on his face as he looked at his old nursemaid. "I like you," he decided, "you're not boring like everyone else is, and Rúmil is the worst of them all. His writing is even worse than he is!" he remarked, being quite proud of the fact that he had been able to vent his frustrations. Most of the time it came out in a mess.

Niquessë smiled fondly at the young prince beside her. It wasn't often that Fëanáro would declare affection for anything or anyone.

"I like you as well. Although, you shouldn't say call other people annoying." She admonished, "even if his writing is dull."

Fëanáro looked up in surprise. "You don't think that do you?" he queried, unsure if she believed that or was just pretending to make him feel better; grownups were weird like that. For some reason, they thought that it made children feel better; it was partially correct, but Fëanáro would never admit that.

"I do indeed, little master." She ruffled his hair, taking in the sorry state of his clothing. "But now it is time for us to stand up, wash up, and ready ourselves for the feast." She picked up the young prince, tossing him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "You don't have to eat all the fish on the table, you know – you only have to eat what is on your plate. If they offer you more, politely decline and take a drink of water."

"I never thought of it that way. Are you certain it will not embarrass Atto?" he questioned, trying to maneuver himself onto her shoulders.

"I am certain. In fact, it is polite not to finish it. That is what allows the chef to know how much of each dish he must prepare. It also lets him know that he made enough food to fill the bellies of hungry princes," she laughed, repositioning him, so he sat quite comfortably atop her shoulders.

"Well, I suppose that makes sense," he said thoughtfully, resting his hands atop his nursemaid's hair. "But what happens with the remainder of the fish?" He wrinkled his nose at the thought of that greasy, fishy food.

"Well I suppose that King Olwë eats it – he loves seafood. Not everyone hates fish, you know. I am quite fond of seafood, and abalone is my personal favorite," she answered.

"I know he eats a lot – but you?" His eyebrows rose in surprise. "You're a nís!"

Niquessë laughed, ignoring his comment on her gender. "Do not be surprised at how much a nís can eat. Occasionally we eat more than even Rúmil."

Fëanáro wrinkled his nose. In his opinion, no one ate more than Rúmil. "You jest." He paused thoughtfully. "Well, if you do speak the truth, can you tell me the secret to eating that disgusting food?"

"My, my, you are full of questions, aren't you?" She paused to remove him from her shoulders as they entered the palace. "Drink lots of water, and don't smell the food until after you have taken a bite because the smell is half the taste," she instructed him. "Soon, the fishy scent will no longer bother you."

The prince seemed to consider this novel idea for a few moments before responding, "Do you promise?" His dark gray eyes turned towards his nurse. She was the one adult, excepting his father, that he trusted to speak the truth.

"Yes, that is, if you allow yourself to enjoy it." Rubbing his nose in an attempt to remove the dirt, she continued, "Come, we must get you cleaned up. The feast begins soon, and if you are to enter at your father's side, I am quite confident that appearing as a terrifying mud monster will not make a good impression."

"I suppose you are right. Why are grownups always right? I can be right too. You know that, don't you?" he asked with a slight raise in his voice.

"Yes. Now, let's clean you up. Hurry now and don't doddle."

Fëanáro smiled as his nursemaid took his hand to guide him to clean the mess he had created. She may be annoying, and slightly infatuated with Rúmil, but she wasn't half bad. He laughed at the thought that she was unaware that half the palace knew of the tryst between the two. A tryst is a secret meeting, so why did those in the palace make such a fuss over the 'tryst?' They are most likely engaged in deep conversations on the merits of abalone and annoying letters.

That was something about which Fëanáro did not know, even though he had attempted to ask his father why everyone continued to gossip about a boring meeting. However, it had not gone over the way he had planned. Atar had only laughed, saying, "That he was too young to understand."

Everyone believed that he was too young for this or too young for that. If that was the case, then why could he ride a horse by himself or write his letters? He was not too young for that. Perhaps he could find someone and inquire as to whether they would have a tryst with him. Maybe then his father would not think him too young. Yes, that was an excellent idea – though no fish or letters would be involved. Maybe cheese.

He smirked as a guard approached them. This guard was new. The young boy could tell by the tapping of his left-hand finger that beat in an erratic tempo. He was not quite one yén, though that was nothing in comparison to Fëanáro's mere fifteen years. No, this guard would not do for a tryst; he probably did not even know what a secret handshake was.

Smiling an innocent smile that only children can muster, he approached his new subject. "You must not have slept well last night because your hair is slightly mussed, indicating that you were pacing most of the evening in apprehension of your first day. Due to your pacing, you must have fallen asleep just as the light of Telperion faded, which resulted in you waking up late. If you had woken up at the proper time, you would have had a chance to comb your hair properly. Personally, I do not blame you for being nervous. Most say I am a handful." Fëanáro smirked, causing the young nér to look to the prince's nurse for assistance.

"Crown Prince Curufinwë is a very brilliant child," she said, invoking his title, "although he does tend to show off for new people. I apologize." She looked down reprovingly at Fëanáro, who only smiled back at her, raising his palms in innocence. "My name is Niquessë. If you have any questions, please ask anyone, they will be willing to help. If you will excuse us, I must ready the prince for tonight's feast. Thank you."

The nér stepped aside, allowing the prince and his nurse to pass through. Turning to look at the still smirking prince, she remarked, "You should not startle people in that manner. It is most impolite."

Fëanáro enjoyed figuring people out; that was something that all who knew him knew to be a fact. Most people were very comfortable, and the guards were usually the easiest. After a while they caught on to his shenanigans, making a deduction entirely impossible because they expected it. That was why new faces were always a pleasure.

"Yes, nurse. I apologize." False contrition was one of his specialties. "We must not be doddle, or I will be late," he said, echoing her words from earlier.

Hurrying out of the hall they left a very confused young guard who quickly smoothed out his hair while wondering what sort of position he had found himself as a personal guard to the crown prince, "this will be interesting," he mused to no one in particular.

 


	3. Thoughts of a Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I accidentally posted this on the wrong story. But it's fixed now! I hope you like this chapter. Many thanks to Erynial Alasse for helping me out with this chapter! I don't own any of Tolkien's works or characters.

Adjusting his circlet, Fëanáro looked into the mirror. His gray eyes seemed to stare back in an accusatory manner. They almost dared him to make a fuss at the feast – to make his presence known. After all, why not? He was smart; he was his mother's son. From the whispers, he had heard she had been inquisitive, intelligent, and of a peaceful disposition. The latter was a trait that he had unfortunately not inherited. There were times that he had wished that he had inherited her dark eyes as well.

Many trips were made to the gardens of Lórien. Finwë wanted to ensure that his son knew whom his mother was. How peaceful and beautiful she looked. She appeared to be merely sleeping; the body had neither decayed nor changed in any way. That was what scared him. He almost wished that there would be some sign of change, some signal of hope. Soon, very soon his ammë would change her mind and choose to be reborn. His father would be happy, and he could finally – finally apologize for the hurt he had caused his mother.

No one mentioned the pain she had suffered – that was something he had figured out for himself through the aid of eavesdropping. Many of his old attendants had gossiped how he had taken his ammë's vitality and will to live. That could not be true; how could he have hurt her? He had been just a baby at the time. That was not something that the young boy was able to comprehend, nor did he want to.

Thankfully, Niquessë would always come and hush up the offending speakers. She did her best to ensure that the child was loved. Between his father and nurse, he felt as though he could fly. He was loved, and no one would ever usurp that place.

His father walked into the room, calling Fëanáro back to reality; smiling, he looked down at his young son, who looked back at his father with adoring eyes.

"Well met, Atar." Fëanáro bowed his head in the traditional Elven salute to royalty, feeling quite pleased that he had performed it correctly.

Kneeling to be at eye level with his young son, Finwë smiled. "I see you are now clean. Niquessë did indeed work her magic. I was worried that I would have to introduce the crown prince as Fëanáro the slayer of mud beasts."

Puffing out his chest, Fëanáro replied with laughter, "I am quite confident that that would put your guests at ease."

"I am sure that it would." Standing up, he took his son's hand. "That reminds me: we are also to be visited by emissaries from the King of the Vanyar. His sister is to be in attendance tonight; you should know that she was a good friend of your mother. I believe you will like her."

"What is her name? Does she eat clouds, and fowl like all the Vanyar? Who is she?" He fired a stream of questions towards his father. It was someone new; two new people in one day; the prince could not believe his luck!

"Slow down and allow yourself to breathe," Finwë chuckled. "I am quite certain that the guard outside your door heard your questions. Speaking of which, I heard you gave your new guard quite the welcome."

"Yes, yes I did. I just allowed him to understand my genius," he deadpanned. "Though you have still not answered my questions. Who is she?" he pressed, waiting for a reply.

Taking a deep breath, Finwë smiled. "SHE is the sister of High King Ingwë, and a friend of your mother – by extension she is my friend as well." He paused and then asked in puzzlement, "Who told you that the Vanyar eat clouds?"

Feanaro raised an eyebrow. "I did. I am fifteen years old." He explained, seeing that his father needed to be enlightened: "Niquessë told me that the Vanyar live among the clouds. That helped me to understand that they eat fowl, and the easiest water to drink would be from the clouds. So technically, they eat clouds."

"That does make sense." Children had the strangest ideas; Finwe knew it was best to go along with them. "Though, I believe that clouds are not her favorite food, and neither are fish."

"She doesn't like fish? Well, then I believe that we will be great friends."

It was always great fun to have new friends; it could become quite boring having only his father, Rúmil, and Niquessë. Of course, there were other children, but they were prosaic and uninteresting. Fëanáro only deigned to play with them to appease his father and fulfill his royal duties. The other elflings did enjoy playing with him, so it was not too hard to pretend that he and they had a good time when his father would ask. After all, they made great experiments.

"That is my most sincere hope. Her name is Indis, by the way." Setting the boy down, he continued, "Come, we must welcome our guests. Are you ready?"

"Yes, father. Let us greet–" a smirk, "–the fish and golden emissaries." Those were good titles. Good titles indeed.

"That may not be the best way to greet them. I believe their names will suffice." He winked, adding, "However, you are free to think that."

The prince watched with great pride as his father straightened himself, took his hand and smiled. Looking proud, and commanding attention they walked towards the banquet hall. He knew that his father truly was a great king.

 -----------------------------------------------

Fëanáro shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This feast was dull. He looked down into the crowd that laughed and ate happily, then looked at his father who seemed to be deep in conversation with the Lady Indis. It appeared that no one had time for an elfling.

Feeling rather bored, he began shaping the halibut to form an eight pointed star.

"Halibut, smelly butt, gross, stinky halibut," he muttered, smashing the already dead fish into a creamy paste. Smiling at the chaos he had created, he turned to the abalone. It was not as tasty as Niquessë had promised – not repulsive, exactly, but still too rubbery.

"You do not like the fish, do you?" a small voice questioned to his left.

Turning to face the inquisitor, he saw that it was a little, shy-looking elfling with silver hair. He wrinkled his nose. He was not a fan of this giggling, googly eyed, and goosey girl.

"Try the tuna. You might like it better." The little girl said with a smile, "my name is Eärwen."

"I know whom you are." He glowered at her. "I just don't like halibut."

"I can see that, Curufinwë. That's why you need to try the tuna," she insisted.

Glaring at the annoying Teler, he viciously stabbed a piece of tuna and popped it in his mouth. He did not like that name; he preferred Fëanáro. Chewing grumpily, he found to his surprise that the tuna was not that bad. Swallowing he spoke, "It is not as foul as the halibut though I still do not like it."

Eärwen smiled. "See. I knew you would like it. You're just too spoiled to say it."

Fëanáro clenched his little fists. "I am not spoiled. I am only opinionated." See that'll show her. He could already see her tiny brain trying to detect even the smallest amount of sass.

Tossing her hair, she humphed at him. "We did not bring the fish for you anyway." Looking to her mother, she said, "Ammë, is it alright if I go to the gardens?"

Patting her daughter on the shoulder, the Teler woman smiled. "I would prefer it if you would stay here. We are guests, and this is not our home, so please sit and be polite."

Chuckling at the interlude to his right, Fëanáro picked up his glass of juice, and, swirling the contents, winked at the princess. "Care to try the berry tarts?"

Eärwen was about to open her mouth in response when the music ceased. Both elflings looked to see that Finwë had signaled for the dancing to commence. The children grimaced; they knew the custom. As the only prince and princess in attendance, it was their obligation to dance at least one song with one another.

Standing, Fëanáro turned to the red-faced princess and gave a gallant bow. "May I have this dance, my lady?" If his father wanted him to be polite, he would give all in attendance a show that would prove his maturity.

"I would be honored, my prince," she replied with a flutter of her eyes accompanied by a graceful curtsey.

Taking her arm in his, Fëanáro escorted Eärwen to the floor. Their entrance was accompanied by coos of adoration from many of the elves in attendance.

"Why are grownups so strange?" Fëanáro wondered aloud. "They're giggling like a gaggle of geese."

"I don't know. Why don't you ask one?" Eärwen was quite fed up with Curufinwë's snarky attitude.

"I already have; their answer is always the same. They laugh." That was the most annoying thing. It was something that made him decide that if he became a father. He would never laugh at his children even if they studied music.

"After this dance, I am going to the garden," Eärwen announced. "Do you want to come? We could feed the birds."

"Do as you please," Fëanáro smiled, looking for another mode of conversation. He felt of sigh of relief when he thought of one. Girls were all the same, crazy about love. Maybe that would get her to stop jabbering about his garden.

"Look at your parents. They look happy." Both elflings looked at the King and Queen of the Teleri, whose eyes were only for one another. It made the boy curious – had his Atto looked at Ammë in that manner?

"They do look happy, just like your Atto and Lady Indis," she remarked. "You're pleasant; that tart must have done you good."

"What do you mean about my Atto and-" He froze, seeing that his father was dancing with the golden nís. "What of it?" he asked. "It is his obligation; he is, after all, king." What the prince would not let on is that this was indeed a surprise. He had never seen his Atto dance; he usually sat and smiled as his subjects made merry. He was not one to dance openly with other níssi.

"Nothing. She just looks happy. One day I will be that happy, and I will marry a handsome prince." Eärwen smiled with the look of a dewy-eyed schoolgirl.

"Well, it won't be me. Girls are gross." He wrinkled his nose. Females were weird, especially princesses – they were the strangest kind.

"Of course, it won't you, silly. Besides, I like golden hair." She curtsied. "Thank you for the dance. I am going to feed the birds now. Do you want to come?"

Looking over at his Atto he waited for a moment, gauging what his father's next move would be. Standing with bated breath, he felt his heart sink as Finwë was still dancing. The music had stopped. His eyes widened as he saw the next dance begin. It was the dance of lovers; as far as he could tell his father had no thought of vacating the floor. He had to get out of there. This was something he did not wish to see.

Guarding his thoughts against prying eyes, he turned to the waiting princess. "Yes, of course, I will join you. I can't let you go by yourself; you're a girl."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Eärwen asked, folding her arms.

"Girls get lost easily. So, of course, I will join you," he said, thankful to get away from having to see his father looking so happy with that woman. Fëanáro had never seen him that blissful. Not even with me.

"I grow tired of this fare," he declared quite grumpily. "Let's feed the fish."

"Ducks," Eärwen corrected, surprised that the prince would even want to play with her.

Choosing to ignore her correction, Fëanáro took Eärwen by the hand and fled the banquet hall, dragging her behind him. For the first time in his life, Fëanáro felt jealousy in its purest form.

Finwë belonged to him, not to Indis.


	4. Forging Gold

Tap. Scribble. Tap. Scribble. Scribble. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Fëanáro cringed as Rúmil continued to trace passages onto the slate. "Why can't we use paper?" he asked, a plaintive note entering his voice. "The chalk makes scratchy noises, and it hurts my ears."

"Until I am pleased with your penmanship, we will continue with the slate. Your letters are too round," Rúmil stated, not faltering once in his inscription to be copied by his young pupil.

"Yours are too square," Fëanáro mumbled. "If you changed them–"

"Do not mumble, young prince. It is impolite. Now copy the Sarati until I am satisfied," Rúmil ordered with a final flourish of the chalk on the slate.

He muttered, "You'll never be satisfied because you invented them." Despite his complaining, he still began to trace out the Sarati that Rúmil had copied for him. Once he was finished, he glanced down at his letters. They were not as beautiful as the drafts of new letters that he had been busy writing, he decided; looking out the window, he also came to the conclusion that he was quite bored.

"Muttering is just as rude as mumbling. Elflings these days." He sighed recalling the blissful days in Arda when all did as they were told. It was instinct, an instinct that was needed for survival. He was pulled out of his reverie when he felt the room become suspiciously still.

"Curufinwë, did I ask you to stop writing?" Turning around, he noticed the empty chair and open window. Rúmil sighed in exasperation. He would need to have a word with Finwë.  _Or better yet_ , he thought,  _maybe I'll visit Niquessë._  "She will know what to do," he mumbled, turning back to the passage he had been painstakingly writing for the young prince to copy.

Letting out a whoop of joy, Fëanáro made his way out of the gates and to the smithy. The smithy had quickly become his place of refuge, ever since Finwë had married that Indis. It was a place that allowed Fëanáro some space and privacy.

"Mahtan, I'm back," he called. Grabbing an apron from a hook, he made his way to the nearest furnace and picked up a pair of tongs.

"Hello, anyone around?" Shrugging, he began moving through the workshop. For only being fifteen he was quite adept at making little trinkets.

"Do not forget to light the fire, young Alyan," Fëanáro smiled upon hearing the booming voice of his master. As far as anyone was concerned, no one need know of his true identity.

"Where were you yesterday?" Mahtan asked, coming into view. Soot and silver shavings were dusted into his beard, almost as if they were a part of it. "I could have used your help with the new circlet for the crown prince."

"You know, I was helping my Atto. He needed help in the-" Fëanáro searched for an excuse, flipping through his mind palace until he found the perfect one. "He was hung over," he stated. He cringed at the pathetic nature of that excuse. As if his father could ever get drunk. The wine was not even his favorite beverage.

Scratching his beard, Mahtan looked again at the selling. "I don't think a father should get drunk when he has children. What does your mother think of all this?"

Fëanáro, suddenly finding the ground interesting, realized that he hadn't thought this through. It had only been two weeks since he had forged his father's acquiesce to his apprenticeship. His lies would only carry him so far.

"My mother is a healer; she always ensures that he has the best cure for his hangovers."

"Really?" Mahtan said with a suspicious look. "What's her name?"

"Niquessë!" Fëanáro blurted out a little too quickly. "She is a wise nís."

The bearded nér let out a laugh. "Do not let your nerves consume you. I did not mean to attack you." Beckoning the child forward, he turned his mind to more pressing matters. "Come. If we are to finish this piece for the king, we had better get to work. It is going to be a gift for the crown prince."

Taking the sketches from his master, Fëanáro perused the illustrations. The circlet was to be constructed of gold with an eight-pointed star at the center.

"I am not the most suited apprentice to craft this circlet. I have not even been here two months." Handing back the design, he looked his teacher in the eye. "I do thank you for the consideration, however."

Mahtan took the sketches from Fëanáro and studied him carefully. Fëanáro was surprised when he was handed back the designs as well as the design for a new project. "Do not be so humble!" Mahtan exclaimed, clapping the elfling on the back. "For someone your age, you are indeed a talented smith. You will make the circlet as well as this ring. It is intended for a close friend of mine who wishes to be left anonymous."

Recognizing that he had lost this fight, Fëanáro took the pages from his master. "Thank you, Master Mahtan. I will not let you down." Grabbing a stool, I sat down and perused the intricate details, "This ring would be best made with rose gold. It would help to accent the pale diamond."

"Why rose gold?" Mahtan inquired.

"Silver is far too traditional, so should be made with rose gold to make the piece unique. It should also be inlaid with pure gold to add the glamor that this design suggests." Looking to his master for approval, he hoped that he had made the correct assumption.

Mahtan stood for a moment looking at this new apprentice in wonder. It had been only two weeks, and this scrawny eighteen-year-old was already growing in knowledge faster than he had expected.

"Rose gold it is," he said with arms folded. "Make sure you pay attention down to the last detail."

A feeling of excitement entered the young elfling's heart. It was rare for Mahtan to give a compliment, but he had received two in one day.

"Do not be so hasty to finish it. You have one week from tomorrow." Taking back the design for the circlet he continued, "I will craft the circlet for the prince, you may take charge of the rings."

Relieved, Fëanáro handed the circlet design to his master. "I propose a contest," he challenged. "The first to complete their work may extract whatever favor they wish from the loser."

"What would that be, Alyan?" Mahtan said with a jovial smile.

"I don't know. But when I think of one I will tell you, for I intend to win," he said with fire in his eyes.

"There is the fiery nér I know so well," Mahtan said with a smile. "Let the contest begin!"

Both elves worked many hours that day. When the leaves of Laurelin began to wane, Fëanáro was still not ready, nor was he willing to part with his beloved tools.

"There is something special about crafting rings," Fëanáro said as he placed his cloak around his shoulders. "It starts out as a simple wire, but hammer it, heat it, bash it, and buff it–" he paused, opening the door, "–you end up with a ring. Pure magic."

With a nod of the head, he exited the smithy and made his way home to reality, leaving his master wondering what or whom he had allowed into his smithy. His words were silver, and his pride golden. "He may very well surpass me in the craft," Mahtan said, placing the tools away. Turning, he sensed that he was not alone. "Though what that will be is yet too soon to tell. Nerdanel, what do you think?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been my favorite chapter to write, so far. Fëanaro is beginning to discover his genius. Let me know what you think! As always, I do not own any of Tolkien's characters. Thank you to everyone who is still reading. Y'all are awesome! Many thanks to Eryniel Alasse who is my Beta.


	5. Engraved

 

Every day as soon as lessons finished, Fëanáro would climb down the ivy that grew across the palace wall. Pulling his cloak over his head, he looked around to make sure he was not being followed. If only he had looked hard enough, he would have seen three figures lingering just above him, carefully perched among the trees.

Satisfied that he was not being followed, he continued on his merry way. The week was almost up. Today he would add to the rings the finishing touches of engraving and set the stones among the delicate inlays. With renewed vigor he broke into a run. Passing venders ducking under people's arms he dashed through the crowd giving his followers quite a hard go.

Turning right, he saw the sign of Mahtan's shop; looking once more to make sure the coast was clear, he turned the handle of the door and was home. "Mahtan, I'm home!" he chirpily announced his usual line. It had become a kind of game.

"What took you so long today, laddie?" Mahtan asked.

"I was procuring this." With a flourish, he pulled out of his bag a collection of berry tarts. "It is my thanks for taking me as your apprentice."

"Perhaps you should be late more often," he said as he took the treats from the young elfling. "Though I do thank you. It has been a pleasure teaching you, my prince."

Fëanáro smiled, not taking notice of his title. Making his way to the counter, he pulled the rings down from their hiding space. Opening the box, he was struck by a blending of golds and shimmering jewels.

"They are almost finished!" he announced proudly, showing the rings to his master. "Look at how flowers appear to have sprung from the rings themselves, as if they were supposed to be there." He marveled at his work.

"They are a gift from Ilúvatar himself." Turning, Mahtan walked towards the door. "Alyan, we have some guests visiting us today. I would very much like it if you would make the introductions."

Heart racing, Fëanáro turned towards the door. His heart sunk when three cloaked elves entered the room. He stood still, clenching the rings, as the elves revealed themselves to be Niquessë, his guard Imrathon, and Rúmil.

Thinking of an explanation quickly, Fëanáro blurted out, "Mahtan, meet my Amme and Atto," he said, pointing to his guard and nursemaid. He understood that it was folly to pair Rúmil with Niquessë. Everyone knew Rúmil.

Ignoring the astonished looks from the elder elves he gave them each a pointed look to continue with the charade.

"Imrathon, I was not aware that Alyan was your son," Mahtan said, looking the nér in the eye. "And I understood you were married to my eldest daughter, Melda. She will be very disappointed to learn you have been married these many years with a son," he said, turning to Fëanáro, who fidgeted under his watchful gaze.

"Well, I can explain-"

Raising his hand, Mahtan interrupted the young elfling. "I know who you are." He narrowed his eyes. "More importantly, I would like to know why you believe that I am not trustworthy, Curufinwë Fëanáro."

Looking at each of the elves before him, Fëanáro observed the emotions hiding behind their eyes. Disbelief and embarrassment were evident in the eyes of Imrathron. Jealousy, exasperation, and curiosity seemed to leap forth from Rúmil; that in itself was surprising.

The elfling looked down at his feet. All he had wished for was time to himself. He had only wanted to learn. Will I apologize, or will I make up another excuse?These thoughts seemed at war with one another inside his mind. Perhaps a different path would be wisest.

"I will not apologize," he announced, looking at the adults before him. "All I wished was to learn, to study, and master a new craft." Tapping his fingers in a three-four rhythm, he waited for their response.

Looking at Niquessë, he saw that her frown had turned upside down. She was smiling softly. "Never apologize for learning." She held her hand up to stop Rúmil, who looked about ready to burst. "However, you should not lie. We have talked about this many times." Looking the boy in the eye, she continued, "Why did you lie? "

Stiffening, Fëanáro looked at Niquessë. "I apologize for lying, but not for coming to Master Mahtan's shop."

Gripping onto the ring, he clenched his fists and readied himself for a stern lecture; he had known that his lies would only last so long. Looking at Niquessë, he almost dared her to correct him.

"Show me," Niquessë said, holding her hand out towards the young prince. Looking down at the wooden box containing his rings, he tentatively gave it to his nursemaid, who turned to Rúmil and his guard. He watched with bated breath as they looked at the rings. Of course, he knew it was good, but he craved their approval.

"Mahtan, are you certain that you did not have a hand in this project?" Imrathon spoke, turning to his father-in-law.

"It is exquisite," Niquessë breathed as she turned the box in her hand, carefully examining the rings inside. "The flowers appear to have been just cut, though it is metal."

Taking the box out her hand, Rúmil walked over to the young prince. "Well done," he said, placing the box in the prince's hand. "Very well, we will allow you to finish the rings – after which, you will return to us and focus on your studies." Raising his hand, he stopped the boy from protesting. "I will not tell our king; that is something that you must do on your own."

Holding onto the rings, Fëanáro looked at the four adults who were softly conversing with one another. "Give me two hours. I will finish the rings before the waning of Laurelin."

Walking over to his workspace, Fëanáro grabbed his apron and tying it around him reached for his tools. Sitting down on a stool, he began adding the finishing touches to his first solo masterpieces.

The elves watched as the prince seemed to ignore all around him. Watching him work his craft was beautiful. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Rumil stood up, attempting to make his way to watch the young child at work. Feeling a hand grab his own, Rúmil looked to see Niquessë watching the prince with fascination. Standing back down, Rúmil felt her gently squeeze his hand, signifying that she was pleased that he would allow the prince to work in peace.

Oblivious to the scene being played out around him, Fëanáro grabbed a file and began adding the silver inlay. That had been a last minute decision that had been made to make the rings reflect the light; under the two Trees, they would shine with a fervent glow. Narrowing his eyes in focus, he carefully set the silver shavings in the ring. Walking over to the fire, he carefully held it in the tongs so as not to melt it, but to allow it to heat just enough to melt the metals together. Pulling the first ring away, he carefully walked to the workspace and set it on a pedestal and worked to polish the metal.

True to his word, it was not two hours before the rings were complete. Carefully placing them in the box with a cloth so as not to leave any fingerprints he closed the lid. Taking his apron off from around his neck, he placed it back on the hook and put each tool back in its original holding area. Holding the box, he walked over and handed it to Mahtan.

Stepping back he watched as his master and the respective elves looked at the now complete rings; taking a deep breath the boy grounded himself back into reality as they stood around the rings. He watched as Mahtan walked over to the window and yanked the curtains open. He held back a smile as audible gasps filled the room as the rings gave off a reflection of Laurelin.

"Do not give up smith-work," Mahtan spoke, clapping the elfling on the shoulder. "For the time being, you will be addressed as Alyan."

Understanding that to be a confirmation of his continuing apprenticeship, the prince straightened his shoulders.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to Eyrniel Alasse, she is my wonderful beta. Go check out her profile on fanfiction.net she has written some great stories. Thank you again for reading. All credit goes to the masterful J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien estate. I only own the OC's. Please vote or comment!!  


	6. Letters

Fëanáro stared out the window, contemplating his boring life. Atto was busy. Lately all he seemed to be was busy. Busy with paperwork. Busy with court affairs. Busy with Indis. He had promised that he would take him riding today. After all, today was his Atto's only free day. Instead, he was spending it with Indis.

Indis had seemed friendly at first: giving him berry tarts and telling him much about his Ammë. For that he was grateful. Now he knew the truth. She was only nice to him so that she could earn his approval in courting his Atto.

Standing up, he walked over to his paint set and easel – they had been a gift from Niquessë. With a sour look, he turned away. Even Niquessë was busy with Rúmil – probably on some 'secret' tryst. Slumping back down, he picked up his paintbrush and squeezed the bristles with his fingers; they had were made of the finest horsehair that could be acquired.

_Knock-knock._

Fëanáro dropped his paintbrush at the sudden noise; grumbling, he bent to pick it up before stomping to the door.

"Yes?" he answered sharply. "I was busy sulking."

"I can see that," his guard replied. It was the same one that he had 'deduced' not three months prior. "Your lunch is here, your highness."

The elfling peaked out the door to see a maid holding onto a cart full of steaming plates of various foods. Looking back and forth between the guard and the food, he allowed his grumbling stomach to win this battle.

"You may bring it in."

With a nod, the young guard took the tray and entered the prince's room closing the door behind him. With surprise he looked at the prince's furnishings; he had been expecting to see the corpses of mice, squirrels, and various other creatures. Instead, he saw the walls decorated with numerous pieces of art ranging from woodwork to traditional paintings.

"I painted all these," Fëanáro stated proudly. "If you would like, you may dine with me. I have nothing better to do." Smelling the many delicious foods, Fëanáro reached for the berry tarts. "I like dessert first. Why did  _you_  bring the food?" Fëanáro asked between mouthfuls of berry goodness.

"The maid was attending other affairs," the guard replied stiffly, not at all pleased with the prince's eating habits.

"Thatsadumbreason," Fëanáro mumbled between bites of food.

The guard could not contain his tongue any longer. "Do not speak while eating. It is impolite." With a grimace, he added, "Please chew with your mouth closed."

Startled, Fëanáro looked at his guard. No one spoke to him this way. They were all too afraid – except for Niquessë. This behavior could only be because Mahtan was Imrathron's law father.

Swallowing, Fëanáro looked at his guard with a daring expression. "That was not wise. I will speak to my father about this."

"Do as you please, my lord." Changing the subject, Imrathon motioned to the various pieces of paper scattered around the room. "What are these letters?" the guard asked, picking up a packet of papers with different markings drawn out.

Standing up quickly, Fëanáro tore the folder from the guard's hands. "You should not snoop." He thumbed through the pages to ensure that nothing was damaged. "Why are you still here?" He scowled.

"My prince," the guard turned to the young boy. "It is my duty to provide you with riding lessons for the day. Your father is–"

"Tied up. I know." Feanaro interrupted. He had no wish to be reminded of his father's 'trysts' with the Lady Indis.

The guard could not help but notice the disappointment in the elfling's face. Imrathon surveyed the young boy, watching the storm of emotions behind those such young eyes. It was as if there was an actual fire hiding within this small child.

"If it is any consolation–" He paused, thinking whether to bring up the new situation. "–your letters are very well formed. Better than even Master Rúmil's."

Fëanáro looked up with a hint of surprise. "Of course they are. I am, after all, a prince."

Doing his best not to laugh at the spoiled elfing, Imrathon nodded his head. "Yes my lord."

The elfling studied the nér, looking for any spite or ill-intent in his words. Deciding that he was only being respectful, the young prince sniffed. "Come. Let us go riding." Setting down the draft work, Fëanáro slipped on his riding boots. "We have a long day ahead of us."

* * *

Urging his horse forward, Fëanáro ignored the pleas to slow down from his instructor, Imrathon. He was free; riding was one of the few points of freedom that he was able to glimpse. Slowing his horse down, he saw his father's black stallion tethered to one of the trees. With a burst of excitement, the young nér slowed his horse to a trot. He had not seen his Atto in nearly three days. Jumping off the horse, he tethered him next to his father's.

Walking through the trees, he looked around, hoping to catch a glimpse of his atto. Nearly hitting his head on a branch, he heard laughter. Feeling triumphant, he ran towards the sound. "Atto, I have something to tell you-" Stopping abruptly, his heart sunk at the sight before him. "Atto – Indis."

Staring back and forth between the two elves, he felt the spark of hatred begin to burn. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at the Elves in an embrace. What burned the most was that his ring, the one that he had forged, lay on Indis' finger. The elfling exhaled before turning swiftly on his heel and ran, preserving what dignity he could.

"Fëanáro!" Hearing his father call out for him only caused him to run faster. Seeing the clearing ahead, he dug deep for a burst of energy that gave him the speed to leap onto his horse and gallop away from his pleading father and instructor.

The eighteen-year-old, for the first time, fought back hot tears as he made for the great road to Lórien. He could not go to Mahtan's – the man saw through him, not to mention that would be the first place Imrathon would go looking for him. His father could not know what he did in his spare time.

As he passed the city gates of Tirion, many citizens were forced to leap aside to avoid the hooves of the great animal. Letting out a breath of relief, the eighteen-year-old saw that he was out of reach of the guards. Looking back, he saw the city walls grow smaller as he made his way towards the silver willows of Lórien.

Fëanáro slowed his horse to a canter as he neared the border to preserve the peace that was so common among the spirits of Lórien. Calming down, he took in a much-needed breath and, waving his hand in the customary greeting, slowed his horse to a walk before leaping off its back. Taking the reins in his left hand, he stood staring at the silvery leaves before handing his horse off to one of the many Maiar of the forest.

"I need only one hour, thank you." Bowing his head in respect, he straightened his back and walked to the banks of the Lórellin where his mother's hröa lay at rest.

There was no attendant near his mother's body. As he neared, he grabbed a tree for support. Finding his strength, he moved to her side and looked down to see her hands still clasped together as if in sleep. Reaching his hand out towards her silvery hair, he tentatively touched it. "Ammë, why did you leave?" As he knelt by her side, he wrapped his little hands around hers and brought his forehead to touch her own. "Please, open your eyes."

A hand rested on his shoulder, causing him to turn to the comforting being and hold on as his little body shook with sobs. It was at moments such as this that he realized how weak he was. The elfling raised his head to see the kind eyes of Olórin.

The wise Maia helped the prince to stand and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a tear from the boy's face.

"They think this is all I know of my mother, but it's not true. Her eyes were like amber."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Eryniel Alasse for being my amazing Beta, and please go check out her stories they are great! Big thank you to my readers, it makes me so happy to see that people are enjoying this story. Fëanor is a very complex character and I hope I am capturing him well, please let me know what you like or if you have any suggestions I love those too.
> 
> I do not own any of the characters, I only own the OC's and any other parts not listed in J.R.R. Tolkien's works.


	7. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not claim any rights to the Tolkien Estate. This is purely a work of fanfiction. All the characters, excepting the OC's, belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Christopher Tolkien. 
> 
> Many thanks to my fantastic Beta, Eryniel Alasse, she is a huge help. Go check out her stories, they're really good! 

 

* * *

Dinner was awkward, to say the least. Fëanáro had walked in late, smiling he nodded to the elves who stood in respect at his entrance. Taking his glass, he raised it as he took on the role of a respectable prince. The elfling nodded his head as the elves took their seats and returned to their conversations.

Finwë noted the expression that crossed his young son's face; it was not the usual mischievous look that was at best worrisome. There was a new flame that burned behind Fëanáro's eyes. Leaning down, he spoke. "Curufinwë, I would speak with you after we have finished."

Fëanáro bit back an insult and dutifully smiled. "Yes, Atar, that would be best."

Finwë sighed in relief, as he had expected his son to talk back in a much harsher tone. Looking to Indis, he saw the concern in her eyes. She grasped his hand in support.

"All will be well," she whispered in a calming tone. The king smiled and resumed the conversation that halted when Fëanáro had entered.

The young elfling clenched his fist as he heard the conversation to his left, gritting his teeth he tasted the soup that was customary of the spring. The seafood on his plate seemed to mock him, reminding him of when Indis had first entered their lives – taking his father's heart, stealing it from him.

He took a sip from his wine glass, trying to ignore that Indis was wearing his ring, the ring that he had so carefully crafted.  _I will never craft a ring again._  His stomach lurched as Finwë kissed Indis on the hand.

"Atar, please excuse me." Not waiting for an answer, Fëanáro bowed in respect before leaving the feast. Nearly knocking a server over, he stormed out of the hall, muttering to himself. He entered his rooms and slammed the door behind him.

Taking his circlet off his head, he threw it at the wall. Seeing no dent in the smooth stone only angered him more. Clenching his fist, he punched the wall in anger. "She's coming back, I know it!"

Fëanáro stiffened as he heard steps behind him. Spinning around, he was surprised to that instead of his father it was Niquessë, his nursemaid. It was almost a relief that it was her, but at the same time, he felt resentment bubble in his chest that it was not his father who had come to check on him.

"What are you doing here?" He grit his teeth in an attempt to assuage his anger. "The feast is not yet over."

Niquessë studied the elfling before her. "Do not let the fire consume you," she cautioned. "You will only regret the outcome."

Fëanáro scoffed at her reply. How could she know what he was feeling? He was a prince; he was strong.  _I am Curufinwë Fëanáro, not some sniveling elfling who needs a mother_. "I suppose you are right," he muttered, "as usual."

"Tomorrow, your father will formally announce his betrothal to the Lady Indis." She raised a hand to stop his protestation. "You are not required to approve of his decision, although it would be wise for you to attend."

"Do not tell  _me_  what wisdom is," he snapped. "I am old enough to know that it is not taught; it is learned."

Niquessë furrowed her brow. "You are right." Turning to leave, she paused and said, "I hope that you will allow someone into your world." She quietly closed the door behind her and turned to see Rúmil waiting.

Her fiancé smiled at her sadly. "We cannot hold onto him forever." He rubbed her arm in comfort. "He must make his path."

"I know that I only worry about the pain he will cause to himself." She took a breath. "Míriel was right to worry."

Fëanáro's ears twitched as he stood by the door, listening to their conversation. Clenching his fists, he turned to his desk, where he pulled out paper and a quill. Dipping the pen into some ink, he wrote a letter, explaining that they need not worry. He would return in time for the ceremony. Another lie.

Sealing the letter with wax, he grabbed his knapsack and took the makeshift rope to the window. Ensuring it was secured to the bedpost, he tossed it outside, looking one last time at his chambers he descended the great height to the ground.

He dropped to his knees and checked for signs of activity, seeing none. His horse was waiting by the nearby oak. It had been easy to bribe the stable boy to do so.

Fëanáro placed his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself onto the horse. He turned his head quickly to see his father walking towards him with palms up in a gesture of peace.

"I will not be gone long." He started adjusting his saddle bag. "Please do not stop me."

"I would do no such thing." Finwë measured his son's temper before continuing, "The ring is exquisite. I was unaware that Mahtan had taken on an apprentice."

"It seems that he did," Fëanáro said, choosing his words carefully, "though I highly doubt the apprentice in question will ever craft a ring again."

"That is indeed a shame, for he is indeed blessed with skill." Finwë had not moved from his place. "I would advise that young smith to continue his studies with Mahtan. It would be a shame for such a talent to go to waste."

"Stop that!" Fëanáro turned his horse towards the king. "You know very well that it was I who crafted the ring! Tell me, how long did you know I was under his apprenticeship?" He scoffed. "You thought it would be fun to use my ring as the betrothal band for that Vanyarin hussy. Did you think that it would cause me to soften towards her as a stepmother?"

Finwë shook his head. "That was not my–"

"I do not care for your excuses," Fëanáro interrupted. "You have failed my mother and me. You could have waited, but you were too impatient."

"You misunderstand. Your mother does not wish to return." Finwë closed his eyes. "For years I implored Namo to release her, but she did not want her release. She was content."

Fëanáro shook his head at his father's words. "You  _lie_! She loves me; she is going to come back. I know she will, and when she does she will find that you have married another!"

Finwë stood silently as his son tore into him with such hurtful, angry words. He was seeing a side of his son that he had never before witnessed. It grieved him deeply to see a young elf hold such resentment within his heart.

"Go." Finwë motioned to the gate. "Know that I love you, and this gate will always be open for you. It is your home."

The young prince was tempted to bite back with a snide remark about how his father was fond of the dramatics. His mouth was stopped by the look in his father's gray eyes. It was sadness. There was a part of him that wished to run to his father's arms and apologize for the hurt that he had caused.

But Fëanáro did not look back.

 _This is better for everyone_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was a little more dramatic, but Fëanor really is the king of drama queens. He's the equivalent of a very spoiled 12-year-old. It also doesn't help that I've been watching overly dramatic tv shows lately... Please let me know what you think, I'm always appreciative of feedback. Thank you to all those who are reading this, I'm so happy that y'all like it! Cheers!


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